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Joys soon succeed like flowers,
If pluck'd not in the spring,
All care away we fling;
THE SWITZER'S SONG OF HOME. Why, Oh! why my heart this sadness ?
Why, 'mid scenes like these decline? Where all, though strange, is joy and gladness,
Say, what wish can yet be thine ?
Oh! say what wish can yet be thine ?
Lone and cheerless here I roam;
To me can never be like Home,
To me can never be like Home. Give me those! I ask no other,
Those that bless the humble dome;
Give, Oh! give me back my Home,
The sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
COME YE DISCONSOLATE. COME ye disconsolate, where'er you languish,
Come at the shrine of God fervently kneel, Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish,
Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal. Joy of the comfortless, light of the straying,
Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure, Here peaks the comforter, in God's name, saying,
"Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure. Go ask the infidel what boon he brings us,
What charm for aching hearts he can reveal, Sweet as that glorious promise hope sings us
"Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal."
TYROLESE EVENING HYMN.
The day is past and gone;
The reaper's work is done.
And the summer dew to flowers,
Come to the sunset tree, &c.
Pleasant the wind's low sigh;
And the turf whereon we lie.
Of labor's task is ó'er
Come to the sunset tree, &a
Yes, tuneful is the sound
That dwells in whispering boughs; Welcome the freshness round,
And the gale that fans our brows. Then, though the wind an altered tone
Through the young foliage bear, Though every flower of something gone, A tinge may wear;
Come to the sunset tree, &c.
VENETIAN BOAT SONG. THE day beam is over the sea,
Oh haste every bark, to the shore; No joy in the morning can be,
With moonlight our pleasure is o'er: Perhaps it is sweet on the hills
To watch how the daylight appears, To see it all bright in the rills,
And shining through night's dewy tears. But oh! in the wild hour of night,
When loud winds are hushed to a breeze, With music and moon-beams so bright,
'Tis heaven to glide o'er the seas. How sweet 'tis to watch the bright glow,
And taste the wild freshness of heaven; How sweet 'tis to gaze on below
The likeness the blue wave has given. To breathe the soft night air perfum'd
With the sighs of the groves on the shore To see how the moon has illum'd
The droppings that fall from the oar.
Then haste every gondolet, on,
When moonlight and music are gone.
THE MULETEER. Soon as the sun his early ray
Across the misty mountain Alings; The Muleteer now takes his way,
And merrily thus he sweetly sings:
Nor saunter on so slow;
We've many a league to go.
He homeward hastes and sings with glee; My mules, speed to my cottage door,
For there my Lilla waits for me.
The shades of night I see;
And Lilla waits for me.
THE MULETEER'S RETURN. 'Tis night—where strays my muleteer?
Ah ! why does he from Lilla roam ? For well he knows my heart is drear,
When he is from his mountain home; But soft, what music greets mine ear?
What strain comes o'er the dell ?
The sound of distant bell.
Hath kiss'd the sparkling mountain rills, And spread her fairest robes of light,
To guide ye o'er the dreary hills.
Their weary forms I see,
In joy again to me.